“And this is old Little John, father,” he cried.  “I say, isn’t he big!”

The Sheriff bowed again, and the great outlaw’s face wore such a comic expression of puzzlement that Robin Hood laughed aloud, and completed his great follower’s confusion.

“He has been so good to me, father,” cried young Robin.  “I can shoot with bow and arrow now, and sound my horn.  Hark!”

The boy clapped his horn to his lips and blew a few cheery notes which ran echoing down the forest glades, and the men assembled gave a hearty cheer.

“You’re welcome to the woodlands, Master Sheriff,” said Robin Hood, advancing now with extended hand.  “Do not take this as the outlaw’s hand, nor extend yours as the Sheriff; but let it be the grasp of two Englishmen, one of whom receives a guest.”

“I thank you, sir,” said the Sheriff slowly.  “I can give you nothing but thanks, for after a year of sorrow I find my child is after all alive and well.”

“And I hope not worse than when accident brought him into our hands.  What do you say?  Do you find him changed?”

“Bigger and stronger,” said the Sheriff, drawing the boy closer to him, while the little fellow clung to his hand.

“Our woodland life; and I warrant you, Master Sheriff, that he is none the worse, for he is the truest, most gracious little fellow I ever met.  Here, Little Namesake, speak out, and let your father know you have been a good boy ever since you came here to stay.”

Young Robin was silent, and looked from one to the other in a curiously abashed fashion.

“Well, boy, why don’t you speak?” cried Robin Hood merrily.  “I want Master Sheriff to hear that we have not spoiled you.  Come, tell him.  You have always been a good boy, haven’t you?”

Young Robin hung his head.

“No,” he said slowly, with his brow wrinkled up, his head hanging and one foot scraping softly at the mossy grass.  “No, not always.”

Little John burst into a tremendous roar of laughter, and began to stamp about, with the result that young Robin made a dash at him and tried vainly to climb up and clap his hand over the great fellow’s lips.

“Don’t—­don’t tell,” cried the boy.

“Ran at me—­only yesterday,” cried Little John—­“and began to thrash me in a passion.”

“Don’t tell tales out of school, Little John,” cried Robin Hood, laughing.  “There, Rob, you must forgive him; we’re none of-us-perfect.  Master Sheriff, and if your little fellow had been quite so, I don’t think that we should all, to a man here, have loved him half so well.  But come, after his confession, I think you will grant one thing, and that is, that in spite of his having spent a year in the outlaws’ camp, he is as honest as the day.”

“Nothing could make my boy Robin tell a lie,” said the Sheriff proudly.  “But, sir, I have come humbly to you now.  Glad even to be your prisoner, so that I might once more see my child.”